Someone Like You
by katkin
Summary: My first attempt at slash! Based on the song by Adele. "Don't forget me, I beg. I remember you said 'Sometimes it lasts in love, but sometimes it hurts instead.'"
1. Chapter 1

A/N: Here it is, my first attempt at slash. Your coments are welcome, so please let me know what you think. Contains a mild sex scene and it'll be a four-part story.

This is based on Adele's song Someone Like You.

Thanks go to **LittlePippin76** for her support with this :-)

Chapter 1

_I heard that you're settled down.  
That you found a girl and you're married now.  
I heard that your dreams came true.  
Guess she gave you things I didn't give to you._

As the train had slowed down to Canterbury West, Sherlock Holmes began to feel a sharp pain in his stomach. He knew it was nervousness, and probably exhaustion too, but he dismissed the thought as he stepped carefully onto the platform. The sun was shining and high in the sky. Sherlock took a deep breath and closed his eyes, allowing his memory to inform him of the route he was to take.

As he walked down the quiet streets, he began to compare his observations with that of his imagination; the memory he'd built up over the past few years. He hadn't been far off. Granted, the houses were slightly closer together than he had pictured, the birds didn't sing as loudly, or the sun shine didn't shine so bright, but Sherlock was sure that it was a happy place to live. He was sure that John was happy there.

He thought of John as he walked slowly, thinking of John's smile and his contagious laugh at inappropriate moments. That was something Sherlock knew his imagination wouldn't have distorted. And it was something which five years wouldn't erase; well four years, five months and twenty-six days to be precise.

Sherlock came to a reluctant stop outside Number 17; a moderately large detached house, with bay windows at the front. The front door was painted red, with boasting silver numerals, shining proudly. This house was loved. Further down the street, Sherlock could hear a pair of children, squealing wildly in their chase. He gave a difficult swallow and walked along the garden path until he reached the front door. He resented his hand for trembling as it reached for the silver knocker.

From the depths of the house, a small yap of a dog could be heard followed by a child's giggling. Sherlock felt suddenly afraid. Should he just turn around and walk away? What if he was caught half way down the path? He was certain that John would be surprised to see him, almost as certain as he was that John would be unimpressed at seeing him. As he thought of John and his possible reactions, Sherlock realised he'd wasted his opportunity to escape. The security chain was being drawn back from the other side of the door, and a muffled female voice could be heard calling further into the house.

"Monty, that's enough! Jack, I've told you you're not to go near the front door, out of the way." The tone was firm but warm. Sherlock felt another wave of panic rise in his chest. It hadn't occurred to him that someone other than John would answer the door. He'd deliberately chosen to arrive at 5 o'clock in the afternoon, so that if John was working as a G.P he'd have finished work, and if he was working a late shift at a hospital then it would be a while before he'd have to set off. The plan had clearly failed. A woman was answering the door. Of course, he knew John had a family now, but in Sherlock's mind they were imaginary, and therefore unable to open the door. But the door had been imaginary too. It was all becoming too real for him. He wished it wasn't so hot. Forcing down his panic, he adopted a nervous smile and was greeted by a pretty, flushed face. Brown eyes looked at him curiously.

"Hello. Can I help you?"

Sherlock brain worked quickly, thinking all of the things he could possibly say; that he was looking for a specific street or that he'd lost his dog. Unfortunately, his mouth said the words he'd wanted to say for so long.

"I'm looking for John Watson."

Sherlock noticed the woman relax slightly in the door frame, and she brushed her blonde fringe from her forehead.

"John's still at work...He'll be back any minute," she added quickly, seeing the despondent look on Sherlock's face. "Was he expecting you?"

_Yes; four years, five months and twenty six days ago. _Sherlock shook his head.

"No. No, sorry. Maybe I should have called first. I'm an old friend. I... used to be his friend. I need to speak with John, it's rather important."

"Ok." The woman stepped back, with a friendly smile. "You're more than welcome to wait."

Sherlock nodded numbly, feeling agitated at the extended wait for John. He wanted this day to be over, so he could run back to his room in Baker Street and never look back. The front door was closed behind him, and he shuffled past the young springer spaniel that was looking mischievous in the hall.

"Come through, we're in the garden."

Sherlock was unsurprised to find another person – a woman – sat at a patio table. If there hadn't been someone else around, Sherlock would have had a serious talk to John about allowing his wife to let strange men into her home while she was alone. He supposed John wouldn't appreciate the tone. It was irrelevant. He let it pass.

"This is our neighbour, Belinda. Belinda this is a friend of John's – I'm sorry, I didn't catch your name."

"Sherlock."

"Nice to meet you."

It was clear from her expression that John had never mentioned him. He wasn't sure if that hurt or not. The neighbour, Belinda, bounced a toddler on her knee. The child was wearing a lemon coloured sun dress with a matching hat. Her chubby legs dangled off Belinda's knee.

"Can I get you a drink Sherlock?"

"No, thank you."

"Really? Not some water? It's hot today."

Sherlock just nodded, disinterested, but a glass of water was placed in front of him anyway. A stray drop rolled down the glass, darkening the wooden table. He took a tentative sip. It wasn't London water, and therefore tasted funny, but he thought it best not to mention it.

"Thank you," he smiled up at John's wife. It suddenly occurred to him that he didn't know her name. Or rather, that he must have deleted it from his memory. Had he known her name before?

"So, how do you know John?" Belinda asked.

"Oh. We used to live together."

"In London?" John's wife asked curiously.

"Yes," Sherlock said slowly, wondering what other questions this would provoke. Fortunately, both women were distracted by the squeal of a three year old boy, from the bottom of the garden. He dangled a plastic spade in one hand, and a muddy patch of soil covered the front of his t-shirt.

"Oh, Jack. For goodness sake. Look at the state of you."

Sherlock was unsure of why she was smiling as she said this. The child was filthy. He looked at the boy's round face, and was suddenly overcome by the thought that this was John's son.

"Kids, hey?" Belinda said and the women laughed. Sherlock nodded his agreement. He didn't know what it meant.

"Right Marie, I'd better be off. I've left Neil putting up the paddling pool with Emily. It'll all end in tears. I'll see you tomorrow."

Belinda passed the young girl to John's wife – Marie, Sherlock had noted – and headed back into the house with a wave.

"Where's Daddy?" Marie asked the girl. The child gurgled back.

"How old are they?" Sherlock asked. It surprised him that he was genuinely interested.

"Jack will be four at Christmas and Alice is 18 months."

An awkward silence fell between them. Sherlock watched Jack digging up the flower bed, an intrigued look upon his face. He looked so much like John at that moment that it took Sherlock's breath away.

"I should go." He rose suddenly, feeling dizzy from the heat.

"No, no. John will be back any moment. I promise you." She tucked a blonde strand of hair behind one ear and Sherlock has a sudden image of that hair splayed out on a pillow beside John as he slept beside her. He looked away quickly. "Look, I'm going to put Alice down inside, it's too hot for her really. I'll be back in a moment. Please stay."

Sherlock simply nodded and was left alone at the wooden table. He observed the garden. The grass was green, but trimmed very short, and several flowers grew from various borders. The garden was very secluded, and the tall oak tree at the bottom provided some shelter. John deserved a home like this. Sherlock's thoughts were suddenly interrupted as he felt a pair of small eyes upon him.

"Hi," Jack Watson said with a beaming smile.

Sherlock blinked down at him.

"Uh...Hello," he replied quietly. Jack giggled at the word and ran off in the direction of the house.

Sherlock ran his hands over his face. He was tired. Very tired. He couldn't remember the last time he'd slept. The past few months had aged him considerably. He felt ill. Sherlock shook the thoughts from his head. He didn't want to go there, not until John had arrived at least.

As that very thought crossed his mind, Sherlock heard the sound of the front door open and close. John was home.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

_I hate to turn up out of the blue uninvited,  
But I couldn't stay away, I couldn't fight it.  
I'd hoped you'd see my face & that you'd be reminded,  
That for me, it isn't over._

The dog barked excitedly at the new arrival. Sherlock sat frozen, listening for a voice that he hadn't heard for so long.

"Alright, alright Monty. I live here, you daft dog!"

Sherlock closed his eyes tightly. It was John; his John. And no longer in his mind but in real life; speaking, and breathing and living. He placed his trembling hands onto the wooden table, and his heart beat madly in his chest as he heard the voice nearer him. A set of keys were throw casually onto the kitchen work surface.

John slowed to a halt at the French doors, his sentence trailing to nothing. For the first time in over four years, their eyes locked. Sherlock felt the sudden urge to stand, and did so.

"John." It was a start.

The silence felt extended as the pair locked gazes. Sherlock didn't think John would look more shocked if he'd struck him round the face. He decided that he definitely should have phoned first.

"Sherlock," John said quietly as he took a step towards him, out of the house. "What are you doing here?"

"I shouldn't have come," Sherlock mumbled in reply, and headed to the house, passing John closely. John caught him by the arm and halted him.

"Why are you here?" John asked again.

Before Sherlock could answer, Marie appeared at the French doors, wafting Jack's dirty t-shirt in front of her.

"Hello you. Good day? Your son's eaten half the garden. I'm about to run him a bath." She looked between the two men. "Is everything ok?"

"Fine," John replied stiffly, giving her his best forced smile. Sherlock had seen it so many times before. He'd seen so many expressions on that man's face, and had only wished he'd spent more time studying them before John had walked out of his life for good.

"Another drink, Sherlock?"

"No...Thank you."

"I don't think Sherlock is planning on staying," John said to Marie, keeping his eyes fixed on their visitor.

"John, I have something I really need to speak to you about," Sherlock insisted. He'd forgotten his desire to run. This needed to be said and the longer he left it the harder it'd be. It'd then be too late. Sherlock knew John would never forgive him if he didn't speak up now.

"How did you find me? Oh, stupid. Stupid question." John gave a scoff. "Has Mycroft been watching me this whole time?"

Sherlock seemed genuinely taken aback by the accusation.

"No. No, of course not, John! But I did get your address from his office. Not directly from him. Mycroft and I are not exactly on speaking terms at the moment." Sherlock attempted a small smile. He wanted John to smile back. He desperately wanted John to remember.

_Remember how irritating Mycroft was?... Remember how great we were?_

"Well why now?" John asked him heatedly. "Why now, after all these years, do you just decide to turn up unannounced?"

Sherlock choked on the in-breath. He blinked, and then blinked again. Why was it so hot? Why was he so tired? Always so tired. Why did it hurt like hell every moment he breathed. He couldn't cope with it anymore. He had to tell John. Then he would know, and Sherlock wouldn't be alone anymore. Hot tears began to overflow, and Sherlock hid his pale, drained face in his hands.

"John," a quiet voice spoke up from the doorway, and John turned to find Marie still stood, watching Sherlock in concern. He gestured to the house with his head, and she nodded silently before leaving the two men alone in the garden.

Sherlock rubbed angrily at his cheeks, and caught John staring at him guardedly. Sherlock felt sick. John suspected their first contact in over four years to be a lie; one of Sherlock's clever acts to get what he wanted. And who could blame John? Everything about the way their friendship had ended had been about Sherlock trying to get what he wanted. Why change the habit of a life time?

It became clear to John that something was not quite right when Sherlock could no longer stand. He lowered himself heavily back into the wooden chair and attempted to calm his breathing. John sat beside him and pushed the half-empty glass of water closer towards Sherlock, who took it with trembling fingers, and drained the glass.

"She seems nice," he mumbled to the table. John stared at him intently. It made him ache inside. How long had it been since John had sat by his side?

"She is. She's wonderful. They all are. But I said that, Sherlock. I _told_ you you'd like her, you just didn't want to know."

Sherlock flinched at the tone.

"I didn't come here to fight with you," Sherlock whispered, trying so hard to meet John's eyes.

"Then why did you come?"

Sherlock's breath caught in his throat as he fought back tears.

"I can't, John...I...I don't want to say these words to you."

And suddenly, Sherlock found that he couldn't keep his emotional barrier up any longer. He put his head in his hands and sobbed. He let it all out; his frustrations at Mycroft for being so useless, his frustrations at _himself_ for being so useless. The past few months, few weeks even, had been a prime example of Sherlock not being able to cope at all.

"Sherlock?" John said quietly, by his left ear, and tentatively placed an arm around his shoulders.

_That_ was exactly what Sherlock had needed. _That _was exactly why he had come. He'd known that he'd needed John. He'd always known. From the moment they had met, Sherlock realised that he didn't quite function properly without John. But the events of the past few weeks had made him crave John. He'd needed picking up off the floor and dragging through the days. He'd needed John to tell him to eat, and to sleep and to _breathe_.

"Talk to me," John said quietly. Sherlock shook his head, and then took a deep breath. He looked up at John through blurred eyes.

"Martha Hudson died."

The three words were spoken quietly, and Sherlock heard the faint intake of breath as John's jaw dropped.

"What? When? How?"

"Last week," Sherlock said in a stronger voice. The words had been said. The hard part was over. Or so he thought. "She...uh...She had cancer. It was...it was terrible John."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I'm telling you now," Sherlock said heatedly, irritated that John was making it about him. Sherlock wanted John to make _him_ feel better.

"It's too late now! Why didn't tell me before?"

"Cure cancer, can you?"

"Don't!"

John's glare softened, and Sherlock spoke again, his gaze fixed on the table.

"I didn't know what to do. I didn't know what I was doing. It frightened me, John. I was frightened because I never expected to feel like this. And it hurts. It really hurts, and I don't know what to do to turn it off." He took a big gulp of air and hoped that John would speak up. He hoped to hear all the answers that he'd waited so long to hear. John didn't speak.

"Well, Mycroft was his usual helpful self, and thought he could solve yet another one of my problems by throwing money at it. I wanted someone to be able to fix her, but she couldn't be fixed. In the end, I just sat there and watched her die." He ran a hand over his eyes, and waited for John. It had been such a shock. Sherlock was shocked even now by his own reactions to it all. He was used to death. It was clinical and distant, and he had never experienced the pain and suffering of seeing someone turn from themselves into a shell; into...nothing. She was nothing anymore. Sherlock was finally alone and he didn't like it at all.

John remained silent, watching Sherlock intently. Sherlock wanted to scream at him. He'd come all of this way, he wanted John to switch off this mess inside. Maybe, after all these years apart, he'd forgot how to.

"It was quick," he continued. "Sort of. Six months. I didn't expect her to fade so fast. It's a long time to watch someone...Anyway, at the end of it she wasn't herself anymore...I don't think I was myself either."

John gave a long sigh and spoke up, his voice croaking with emotion.

"I should have been there."

"Would you have come?"

"Yes! God, yes Sherlock. Of course I would have come. Do you really not know me at all?"

Sherlock chose to ignore the question.

"You couldn't have done anything for her."

"Not for _her_, no."

Sherlock nodded his understanding, and attempted a small smile.

"Why does it hurt so much, John?"

"Because, you've lost someone close to you and no one is ever going to fill that gap." The words held more truth than John realised but Sherlock wouldn't voice this.

"She didn't belong to me though," Sherlock said quietly.

"I don't think _she_ ever saw it like that," John smiled. Sherlock nodded. "There are very few people in this world that have enough patience and understanding to love you Sherlock Holmes, but Martha Hudson managed it. And yes, maybe you felt useless towards the end, but having you there will have been enough for her, I know it."

"How do you know it?"

"Because I know her...And I know you."

Sherlock nodded. An awkward silence fell between the pair. Sherlock sniffed loudly.

"Gah, look at the state of you. When was the last time you slept? When was the last time you ate?"

Sherlock gave a low rumble of a laugh.

"Now there's my John."

But of course, he wasn't his John. He hadn't been for a long time. The tension which had risen away from them began to fall slowly back into place. Neither of them had the energy to begin to work at chipping it away. Instead John stretched in his chair and gave a sigh.

"Stay here tonight, Sherlock. Sleep and eat. Or at least sleep. Just...don't go yet."

Sherlock was already rising from his seat. He felt different somehow. Maybe he felt a little more understood.

"Uh...no. I can't. I have to get back to Baker Street...It's where I belong."

John nodded, already expecting the answer. The pair made their way back into the kitchen, and Sherlock glanced at a notepad on the kitchen work surface. He pulled it towards and scribbled a short note.

"Funeral details," he muttered. It had all been planned weeks in advance. Mrs Hudson had been very specific with her details, and Sherlock had been relieved not to have had the work and responsibility. He recalled that day, when the funeral director had left. It had been raining. He remembered sitting, watching her intently as she'd cried to herself for ten minutes, before drifting to sleep. As Sherlock had gone to leave the room, Mrs Hudson had taken his hand and spoken four gentle words: "I want John there." Sherlock had nodded. He'd known it was for him, rather than her. They both wanted John there.

Sherlock looked down to see John scribbling his own note.

"My number," he explained. "Please call me, Sherlock."

Sherlock looked down at the string of numbers and committed them to memory. He held the paper tightly in his hand.

"I can't do that John. This doesn't change anything between us. You're still you and I'm still me. I'm still not forgiven."

"No," John agreed quietly. "No you're not. But this _does_ change things Sherlock. I just wish you'd have let me know sooner, but I'm not at all surprised that you didn't think to tell me." His words weren't spoken harshly. "I'll see you at the funeral then."

"Yes."

"Should I come round the house?"

Sherlock shrugged. He was waiting for the days to pass, for the shock to fade, and for John to realise that he still hated Sherlock for everything that had gone on before.

They said their goodbyes awkwardly on the door step with a gentle shaking of hands. John lingered for longer than was necessary as he watched Sherlock walk away down the street back to his house of solitude. John closed the door behind him.

That night, as John lay awake, he thought of Mrs Hudson, and of Sherlock and his heart ached for a past that would never leave him. The door to that life had never closed, but had been left open like a wound, and hanging from its hinges. Marie shifted in the bed, and gave a sigh.

"Are you still awake?" she asked softly.

"Hmm. I'm just thinking."

"First time for everything...What are you thinking?"

John rolled over on the bed so that he was facing her, though he was unable to see the detail of her face. He reached for her hand and gave it a squeeze.

"Oh, it's just Sherlock." It would always be Sherlock.

"Was he ok? He seemed upset."

"Yeah, it's just a friend of ours – a very dear friend – died last week."

"Oh, I'm really sorry sweetheart."

John proceeded to explain about how he planned to travel to London for the funeral, and he felt the pillow shift as Marie nodded in understanding. The pair eventually fell silent. John thought Marie had fallen to sleep, until she inhaled loudly before speaking.

"You've never mentioned Sherlock before."

There was a long pause.

"No."

"When was the last time you saw him?"

"It was the night before our wedding," John muttered quietly, before rolling over and feigning the sleep which he knew would never come.


	3. Chapter 3

Chapter 3

_Nothing compares. No worries or cares.  
Regrets and mistakes their memories make.  
Who would have known how bittersweet this would taste?_

Five days later, John Watson found himself in the back of a black cab, heading from Victoria Station to Baker Street. It was raining fairly lightly, and the end of August was already showing signs of turning into a dreary autumn. He looked up at the buildings through the window as he passed them by, thinking how London hadn't changed one bit since he'd left nearly five years ago. It was still noisy, and busy and great. And yet John couldn't help but feel that he didn't belong there anymore; he was a stranger now. The buildings look back down with disinterest at the man who had deserted them all those years ago.

The cab pulled up a few doors down from 221B and John paid the taxi driver with a word of thanks. He took a few slow, deliberate steps towards the familiar black door, as the taxi drove off behind him. _Home_, he thought sadly. His hand hesitated over the knocker and he looked up to the first floor window. There was a faint light spilling out onto the street. John waited for a moment longer. He wasn't sure what he was waiting for. Eventually, he knocked firmly on the door and waited as the rain soaked through his suit jacket. From within the house, John heard the rhythmic thudding of feet against the stairs and moments later the door was wrenched open to reveal Sherlock Holmes, dressed in formal black trousers, his white shirt open at the neck. For a brief second, a look of surprise flashed in his eyes as he stared a John. It was instantly concealed, and Sherlock glanced away, immediately disinterested.

"I can't do my tie," Sherlock announced as a greeting, shoving the material towards John without a second glance as he headed back to the stairs. John looked down at the dark red silk tie in his hand, as he stood on the doorstep in the rain. Sherlock had already disappeared up to the first floor. John let out a deep breath and stepped into the hallway, shutting the door behind him. As he headed for the stairs, he slowed and made his way to the door at the far end of the hall. He stood at the dark, wooden door and traced the brass letter 'A' with his finger before resting his head against the cool glass pane. John lingered there for a moment. The tie hung limply in his hand. He closed his eyes and tried to forget the reason he'd come. From somewhere deep within his memory he could hear Mrs Hudson's voice, giggling at something they'd been watching on television. He could hear her chastising her tenants for yet another dangerous and inconsiderate act. He could remember the look of affection in her eyes when she looked at 'her boys'. And then he remembered the last words she ever said to him. He hated himself for leaving her, and never saying goodbye. Now it was too late.

With a trembling hand, John brought his fingertips to his lips and then placed them gently on the door. Above him, he heard the floorboards creak under the weight of agitated pacing. He took a deep breath, exhaled slowly, and then headed upstairs to the place that had been his home for many years.

The flat was a state. John took in his surroundings as he stood in the living room doorway. Very few things had changed since he'd moved away; the décor and furniture remained the same apart from, John noted, a different coffee table. It was larger and higher than the one John recalled, and he was absolutely certain that Sherlock would have put his foot through the previous one.

"Take a seat," Sherlock muttered from the other side of the room, distracted in his search for something. John looked around for a clear surface to perch. There was none. He tentatively moved towards the sofa which was covered in a blanket of strewn newspapers. Sherlock let out a sudden exclamation.

"No! Don't touch those. Sit anywhere else but there."

John fought the urge to roll his eyes before pushing at the pile of junk on the coffee table to create a free corner.

"What are you looking for?" he asked Sherlock, before realising that this was the first time he'd spoken to him since arriving. Before Sherlock could answer, a muffled ring of mobile phone could barely be heard. Sherlock gave a sigh of relief and scrambled to one of the arm chairs. After several cushions were moved aside, Sherlock smiled with delight as his phone came into view. The smile soon faded as he noted the caller on the screen.

"Mycroft," he muttered, jabbing his thumb to end the ringing. "I suppose he has some uses after all." The phone was shoved roughly into his trouser pocket, and he marched into the kitchen.

John rose from the coffee table and walked tentatively to the kitchen, where he stood in the doorway and watched Sherlock pour a questionable liquid down the sink. John began to wish he'd gone straight to the cemetery. He opened his mouth to speak, but Sherlock raised a hand to silence him as his mobile rang again. This time Sherlock answered it.

"What?...Yes. No of course I haven't forgotten. Can you please not be an arse just for one day? I don't have the patience for you today...No, I don't need a car, I've booked a cab...Yes I'm sure!...Stop talking Mycroft, I'm hanging up now...Fine, I'll see you there...I'm hanging up...No, I'm fine. John's here." At this comment, John looked up from examining his shoes. So, Sherlock _had_ noticed then. He suddenly felt mildly needed for the first time since he'd arrived.

Sherlock had ended the call and began to stare at John, who was still staring back.

"What?"

"What? Nothing."

An awkward silence filled the kitchen. John wanted to leave but couldn't bring himself to. He tried to remind himself that he was here for Mrs Hudson. He had come to say goodbye; five years too late. She deserved that much at least.

"What did you do with my tie?" Sherlock asked, breaking his reverie. He strode passed John to the living room.

"It's on the sofa," John replied pointlessly, as Sherlock had already spotted it. He passed it back to John with a hopeful smile this time.

"You can do your own tie Sherlock."

"I want you to do it," Sherlock insisted. John placed the tie around his own neck, and tied it up without fuss, deliberately avoiding Sherlock's gaze. He lifted it over his head and handed it to Sherlock. The faint sound of a car horn could be heard, and Sherlock physically jolted.

"Are you ready?"

"No."

"Sherlock..."

They stood for a brief moment, staring solemnly at each other. The house sounded quiet around them; a bitter reminder of what was to happen that day. John cleared his throat and moved purposefully to the door, steering Sherlock as he went.

The cemetery was only a short drive away, but the traffic had become heavy, and the journey stretched out ahead of them. The two men stared out of opposite windows. John stole a look at Sherlock in the reflection of the window; his jaw was locked in a determined silence. John took several breaths, in preparation of speaking words which he hadn't yet found. Eventually, he settled on a topic.

"Do you see anything of Greg Lestrade?"

Sherlock looked around at the sound of John's voice, and looked briefly surprised at his presence. How many times had _that_ happened in the back of a black cab? John almost wanted to smile.

"No, not so much," Sherlock replied vaguely. "He's on secondment. Manchester, I think, maybe. North, somewhere, I don't know. He occasionally texts, to check I'm behaving myself." Sherlock failed to mention that he never sent a reply. John just nodded, satisfied with his own attempt at making conversation, and turned to look out of the window again.

They reached their destination, and left the cab slowly, regardless of the fact that the ceremony was moments from starting without them. Their feet crunched noisily against the damp gravel as they made their way towards the beautiful, stone building ahead. As they neared the church Sherlock slowed to a halt. John turned on his heels to acknowledge him.

"Come on, we're late as it is."

"I can't...Or rather, I don't want to." Sherlock heaved a sigh. "Look, you go. I'll stay out here. You should say goodbye." Sherlock knew it was what John wanted. He knew that his past actions had forced John away from Mrs Hudson, and his incapability during her illness had meant that he'd robbed John of his last chance to say goodbye. If he'd had been capable of feeling anything at that moment, he would have felt incredibly guilty. But Sherlock couldn't feel a thing.

"No," John said quietly. "No...It's fine. I'll stay here...with you."

Sherlock nodded his appreciation. They made their way to the church and leant against the cold stone wall, listening to the organ beginning to play as the service started. Sherlock frowned as he thought of Mycroft in there, judging him on his failure to get through the day in an orderly fashion. He closed his eyes and listened to the muffled voice as the sermon began.

John turned his head slightly to regard Sherlock.

"Don't bite your nails," he said automatically, before his brain could stop himself. Old habits had died hard for the both of them. Sherlock eyed him with a hint of amusement, but lowered his hand back down to his side.

"Are you sleeping?" John asked and Sherlock shook his head. "Do you want me to sort something for it?"

"What, you mean like pills?" Sherlock said, wrinkling his nose in distain. It wasn't pills that would make it better. "No, don't bother." He began to chew on his thumb nail again. "I miss her," he said bluntly. "She was...useful...sometimes anyway. I miss her ridiculous lack of urgency. I miss her dreadful tea."

"It really was dreadful," John agreed and they smiled sadly at each other. Neither of them had told her so, in all of the years they'd known her. It had made her what she was.

"The house is just so bloody quiet now. I can't think. It's driving me mad."

"Well...maybe you should move out?" John suggested quietly, not really wanting to suggest it at all. Sherlock scoffed, and his eyes stung with tears for the first time that day.

"And go where, John?" he said bitterly. "I have _nothing_ else. I have my job and I have an empty house with memories of people that leave me and yet won't leave me alone."

John didn't respond. Both men stood there silently, frowning at their own internal thoughts as the service went by without them. Eventually, Sherlock spoke up with a laugh.

"God, I need a cigarette."

John's reply was halted by the sound of the congregation rising from the pews. For a brief moment Sherlock looked panicked.

"We need to move before Mycroft spots us and tries to talk to us." He said this as if it would be the worst thing to happen to them that day. John thought that burying their friend was a far more traumatic experience than a few civil words with Mycroft Holmes. He decided it was best not to say so. Several people began to file out of the church and John took Sherlock by the elbow, guiding him in the direction of the crowd.

"We _have_ to say goodbye Sherlock," he insisted and Sherlock nodded vaguely. They walked together through the cemetery and the group assembled around the open grave. Sherlock tried to pull away at John's grip, but he held his arm tighter. "Please," John hissed, looking around at the group, hoping not to make a scene. "Please, do this for me; this one thing." Sherlock nodded in resignation and looked at his shoes.

From across the gathering, John's eyes met Mycroft's and the pair gave each other a solemn nod. Mycroft was dressed smartly in black, as usual, but John noticed that he too looked tired and... sad he decided.

Beside him, John felt Sherlock stiffen and he glanced over to see a shining oak coffin nearer the grave. His pulse beat madly in his ears, and he couldn't hear a thing. Silence had drowned it all out. He suddenly became aware of his hand enclosed in Sherlock's own. Cold fingers tightened, and John noticed Sherlock avert his gaze from the scene before them, and stared intently at a tree in the distance.

It was surprising to John that his mind screamed to think of anything but Martha Hudson; sweet, kind Mrs Hudson. He didn't want to think of her wasting away to nothing or lying in that box, being buried away from the world. It hurt his heart as he suddenly thought that his children would never get to meet her. He had always meant to write, to send her photos but he had never gotten around to it. Now it was too late.

John's mind fought desperately to keep the memory of their last encounter shut firmly out of his consciousness, but the more he fought it the clearer the memory became. It had been the morning of his wedding, and John had been struck with a numb disappointment from the very bottom of his stomach. He couldn't even speak. He remembered the look on Mrs Hudson's face. He had never seen her so cross before. She had pulled him to her with more strength than he'd ever expected from her, and she spoke firmly into his shoulder as he had shaken with sadness; His closest friend in the world had let him down.

"Forget about him," she had said fiercely. "Forget about him, John. Don't you _dare_ let him ruin this for you. He's not worth that. Forget about him." Tears of disappointment had streamed down her face and John knew at that moment that he had to leave him. He had to leave Sherlock Holmes behind.

Those were the last words Martha Hudson ever spoke to John, and he resented Sherlock for causing that. He squeezed his eyes shut and felt the cold hand in his. The anger bubbled inside of him and yet...despite it all, he couldn't bring himself to pull away.

As the coffin was lowered down, John thought of the night it all started, or rather the night that was the beginning of the end. They had been working on a regular case, nothing special. And yet Sherlock had messed up spectacularly, and the failure had torn at him inside. He was angry at himself, and John wanted to fix that. He had wanted Sherlock to remember how brilliant he was. He wanted Sherlock to know how brilliant _he_ thought he was. In their five years apart, John had always denied all knowledge of who had initiated that first kiss. It was easier to deny it than to accept that it had been him. He never intended it to go any further than that. Maybe Sherlock hadn't either.

But the kiss had led to John's hand in Sherlock's hair. It had led to Sherlock's long fingers, unbuttoning John's shirt. It had led to them both falling onto Sherlock's bed but, as John looked back at it, he had no recollection of how they'd gotten there. He'd been so caught up in everything that Sherlock was. It had taken his breath away.

As John had felt Sherlock's skin against his, his lips on his neck and his hot breath in his ear, he thought that it didn't feel anything like he'd imagined it to feel. John had never expected Sherlock to be so...gentle. But that would have meant that he'd thought about it before. Sex. Sex with Sherlock. Had he? He couldn't remember. He couldn't think of anything anymore. His mind had gone blank.

Somewhere deep within him, John had heard that little voice screaming that it was a terrible idea and that they would both live to regret it. But John didn't want to hear that voice. In the end it had been drowned out with the sound of his own breath, and Sherlock moaning above him.

But in the silence, as they lay there together in the dark, the voice had returned screaming louder than ever: What the hell had they been thinking? They hadn't been thinking. For the first time since John had met Sherlock, even _he_ hadn't been thinking. John had felt suddenly raw and vulnerable and...frightened.

It was for that reason that Sherlock had woken alone the next morning. John had run. He'd hidden. He hadn't wanted to face up to the fact that he could end up really loving this man. So he had run.

Three days later, John had returned and the incident was never mentioned by either of them. Two weeks later he had met Marie and eight weeks after that he had married her.

"_Don't marry her. Please, John! Don't do this to me."_

Sherlock's words resonated in his head, as clear as they had been the day he had pleaded with him. They still broke his heart, even now.

The funeral was over, and the crowd began to disperse with hushed voices. John remained on the spot, deep in his memory. He was suddenly brought back to reality by the feeling of Sherlock's gaze on him.

"What?" Sherlock asked quizzically, studying John's expression, and John felt himself blushing. He felt ridiculous and glanced at the grass under his feet. This day wasn't supposed to be about Sherlock, it was supposed to be about Mrs Hudson. But John supposed that everything had to do with Sherlock. Resentment began to rise uncomfortably in his chest. Sherlock's hand was released suddenly and it dropped clumsily to his side.

"We...uh...we should find a cab," John muttered, and began to walk away. Sherlock glanced at the grave for a brief moment, before striding after him.


	4. Chapter 4

A/N: I forgot the disclaimer. Sherlock and co aren't mine and neither is the song. Thanks to all of you who have read and reviewed. This is the final chapter. Please let me know what you think.

Chapter 4

_Never mind, I'll find someone like you.  
I wish nothing but the best for you too.  
Don't forget me, I beg. I remember you said:  
__"Sometimes it lasts in love but sometimes it hurts instead."_

As the taxi neared Baker Street, John spoke up to the driver, and asked him to pull over at the edge of Regent's Park. He didn't want to go back to the house. It was just a shell now. He refused to acknowledge his fear; that spending time there might make him want to stay.

The two men got out of the cab and walked silently for several paces before John halted at a park bench and lowered himself down. He felt exhausted. It was tiring saying goodbye and he knew it wasn't over yet. He looked up at the sky as the dark clouds began to roll over. Sherlock sat himself down next to John and watched him intently for any sign that he would speak first. John always used to know just what to say. But Sherlock knew in the depths of his stomach that John wouldn't speak. He was waiting for Sherlock; for an explanation or apology...something. Sherlock took a deep breath. It was now time.

"I found it hard to explain," Sherlock started, then gave a growl of frustration and ran a hand over his face. "No, I couldn't explain...Actually, that's not it either. I just didn't realise I needed to explain. I realise it now... five years later."

"Four years, five months and thirty one days," John spoke up quietly. Sherlock eyed him warily.

"Please don't make fun of me," he muttered in a low voice.

"I'm not...Sherlock, I'm not...I'm sorry."

Sherlock took a deep breath. He thought back the last time he ever expected to see John; the night before John's wedding. He'd asked so much of John before, but never in all of the time they'd spent together had Sherlock pleaded with him like he had done that night. It clearly hadn't been enough.

"I asked you not to marry her," Sherlock mumbled, and he felt John bristle beside him. "I begged you...but you went ahead and you did it. And that_ really_ hurt."

"Funnily enough, I didn't do it to hurt you. I did it because I loved Marie. I love Marie." John corrected before giving a scoff. "Once again it's all about you, isn't it Sherlock; How you can ignore your best friend for nearly five years because, for once in your selfish life, you didn't get your own way!"

The pair glared at each other angrily and Sherlock's mind moved quickly, thinking of the possible responses to the accusation.

"Firstly, I didn't ignore you. You walked out on me, remember? And secondly, this has got nothing to do with whether or not I get my own way." It had...partly, anyway. But Sherlock was angry with John for not understanding him. Perhaps they had left it far too long. Perhaps Sherlock should start to tell the truth.

"Have you any idea what it's like to look around you and suddenly everything you know is gone? I didn't want to be on my own. I wanted you to stay. I wanted you to at least acknowledge that, but you didn't. You just fucked me and left."

John's jaw dropped in shock at the accusation.

"It wasn't like that!"

"Well that's how it felt. Perhaps, if you'd have stuck around to explain otherwise, rather than rushing off to marry a woman you barely knew, then I wouldn't be feeling this way."

John sat there stunned, and then frowned. Guilt sat heavily in his chest and he hated that it was there. It should be Sherlock feeling guilty. _He_ had caused this mess. Hadn't he?

"I don't know what you expect me to do about this. I'm sorry, Sherlock. I'm sorry I fell in love. I'm sorry that I'm happy and you're not but I can't change that. I wish I could. Do you think I like to see you like this?"

"Don't!" Sherlock snapped at him. "Don't you dare pity me. I'm not foolish enough to expect anything from you today or ever. I can't put myself through this again, so just don't. You're not here for me you're here for Martha; I know that, you've made that perfectly clear. I don't need you here, patronising me with your perfectly happy life. Just...go home John."

It was a lie and it tasted horrid in his mouth. Of course he needed John. He wanted him too. He'd spent the past five years – longer even – wanting someone that he couldn't have and yet, even now, he couldn't bring himself to tell him the truth. Everything that caused his heart to ache had been entirely his own fault and that made him hate himself even more. Hating himself was easier than hating John.

John stared at him intently for a moment before leaning back against the wooden bench.

"I don't know what you want from me, Sherlock," he said with a hint of impatience. Sherlock took a deep breath and finally, after all of these years, told John the truth.

"I want you to love me."

"I did! I do, Sherlock," John replied instantly. "Do you think there's not a day goes by that I don't think of us, and how badly it all ended? You were the one person in my entire life that could...fix me. I would have followed you anywhere. I _did_ follow you everywhere! But I grew out of that and I knew that you never would because, to you, it wasn't just a lifestyle, it's the very core of who you are and I wouldn't want that to change. It would have broken my heart."

"Well you broke mine instead. All of those people – Mycroft, Sally, Lestrade even – thought that I didn't have a heart but you, you believed that I did. You proved them all wrong John and then you went ahead and you fucking broke it!"

John leant forward and rested his elbows on his knees. He placed his head in his hands because he didn't think he could bear to look at Sherlock any more.

"I'm sorry, Sherlock," John muttered, and he truly meant it. He'd spent the past few years waiting for Sherlock's overdue apology that it took him by surprise how sorry he felt for his own actions. "I didn't handle any of it well. I was frightened and I..." he trailed off, but immediately felt Sherlock bristle beside him, and his pale eyes stared intently, pleading for the rest of the sentence.

"Go on."

"What? No, forget it. Forget I said anything."

"John please! I just told you something really difficult, the least you could do-"

"Fine! I was scared. I never meant to sleep with you. It was a mistake. I knew it would ruin us and it scared me. You'd got what you'd wanted, like you always do, and then you'd lose interest and leave. Because that's what you do Sherlock; you use people and break them down until you've finished with them, and then you discard them and move on to something more interesting. I'd seen you do it to so many people – so many good people – and I was about to become the next in a long line... So, I left... before _you_ had chance to."

Sherlock looked physically stunned. His mind whirred with possibly retaliations; his first reaction being defensive.

"I can't believe that you would assume that I would do that to you; that I would let you down like that. You of all people understood me more than anyone has ever done...more than I understand myself. Why would you think that I would do that to you?"

"Because you proved me right, Sherlock! You couldn't even bring yourself to turn up on my wedding day. Do you have any fucking idea how much that hurt?"

_About as much as seeing the person you love marry someone else_, Sherlock mused but he was too tired to say so. He was done with all of this and he could tell by John's pale face that he was too.

"I can't fix this," Sherlock said quietly, more to himself than to John.

"Would you? If you could? Would you go back in time and fix this mess?"

"In a heartbeat. I would change it all John, just to get you back by my side where you belong; where you've _always_ belonged. Don't try and deny that. You know it's true. That's why this hurts so much because this isn't the way it's supposed to be."

"I know," John found himself saying, and truly meaning it, which was why he knew he had to say the next words. "I...I think that's why I need to say goodbye now." Sherlock blinked at him, his brow furrowed in uncertainty. "I think it's time we stopped hurting each other. After five long, stupid years I think we both deserve to say goodbye to each other, don't you?" His breath caught in his throat. It was foolish; he'd never even expected to see Sherlock again, so why did it hurt so much to say a final goodbye? As he studied the pained expression on Sherlock's face he wanted to take back all he'd just said. He wished so much that he could split himself in two or that he could stop loving his wife and children. That thought made him feel physically sick. He knew it wasn't possible. It was like a hammer to his heart, and John wanted to scream at the world, for he knew that he belonged by this man's side and through their anger and hurt at each other, they had ruined that.

He leant towards Sherlock and took his hand, squeezing it tight.

"Don't cry Sherlock."

Sherlock showed a glimpse of surprise as he reached a hand to his own cheek and wiped away tears which he hadn't realised had fallen.

"Stupid," Sherlock mumbled to himself. "This is just the worst day," he whispered quietly and John nodded.

"I know."

"Don't forget me," Sherlock said quietly.

"Do you think I could _ever_ forget you?"

"I think you've tried to...and I think that hurts even more."

"Sherlock," John sighed. "Find someone, please."

"I don't need anyone," Sherlock insisted instantly and John smiled.

"I know it sounds selfish but I'll be a lot happier knowing that there's someone out there watching out for you...the way that I used to," he added timidly.

"I don't think I could find anyone quite like you. You're really something else."

"True. That's true."

"Quite frankly you were terrible to live with," Sherlock added bluntly. John laughed loudly and tears sparkled in his eyes. "I'll find someone, John. For you. I'll do that." It was a lie and they both knew it.

Suddenly they were both standing from the bench; their bodies clearly more in tune with each other than either their heads or their hearts.

"So...I guess this is it."

"Yeah," Sherlock croaked.

"Shit," John breathed.

"Yeah."

John pulled Sherlock to him and held him tightly, breathing in the smell of his hair one final time. He felt his body, warm against his, with the staggered breath that matched his own. It was a brief moment before John registered Sherlock's lips against his and it startled him for only a second, before he returned the kiss gently. Sherlock's lips were softer than John recalled, and he tasted the salty tears which he had caused. He ran his hand up Sherlock's back and stroked at the hair at his neck wishing it could stay there, but knowing that it couldn't. He could feel Sherlock's pulse beating quickly in his neck, and John felt suddenly dizzy; a dizziness which he hadn't felt for a long time...the dizziness that only Sherlock Holmes could cause. They broke apart and Sherlock leant his forehead against John's. John heard Sherlock's breath hitch in his throat. He wondered for a moment if he'd speak, but he wasn't sure he could bear to hear what he might say.

Suddenly, Sherlock let go of John and turned abruptly, walking away without even a glance over his shoulder. John watched him go, feeling a huge gap where Sherlock had once been. He watched Sherlock until he'd disappeared into the distance before falling onto the bench, and sobbing harder than he could remember ever doing in his life. He hated the world for making him choose. He hated Sherlock for making him feel this way. He hated Martha for selfishly dying. But most of all he hated himself for being so incredibly ungrateful to the universe for his loving wife and beautiful children who, for one brief moment, he'd tried not to love.

But he chose them. He knew it should never have been a choice, but he'd chosen them. Perhaps he would just have to forgive himself for being torn in two. Part of his heart would always be in London, with the man who had loved him and taught him how to live and laugh and love again. And maybe that was ok, John thought, because he would leave that part of him here with Sherlock and that's where it belonged; in his past.

John rose from the bench, wiping at his eyes before walking away towards his future, leaving part of himself behind.

The End.


End file.
